


running out of days

by addandsubtract



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Body Horror, Dreams, Lovesickness, M/M, grossness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-20 12:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: He’s been alone for some time now.





	running out of days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeagleRock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeagleRock/gifts).



> hello friend! i hope you enjoy this fic! i was very taken with the idea of something magical happening to ovi, and even if that's not _exactly_ what ended up happening, i hope this satisfies some of that. ♥

The morning Nicklas shows up, Alex has been in the bathroom for an hour vomiting up black sputum. It’s normal for him, these days — the weakness, the shaking, the way his nose bleeds black, some days, or how he sees spectres on the edges of his peripheral vision, hovering there. It’s not as bad as it could be. He’s flushing the toilet for the fourth time when he hears the knock on the door, and he does his best to wipe the last dark smear off of his chin, washes his hands, and trudges out into the entryway.

He’s been alone for some time now.

He glances out the window onto the front porch out of habit, and nearly freezes in the hallway when he sees Nicklas, bundled up to his nose in thick winter clothing, cheeks pink, expression mutinous. He’s lifting his hand to knock again. Alex thought he’d have more warning. He thought he’d be more prepared.

He opens the door just as Nicklas’s fist is about to hit it. Nicklas’s eyes widen in surprise and he takes a step back before he rallies.

“So you _are_ here,” Nicklas says.

Alex sighs. “I’m here,” he says. “Come in.”

He moves back, holding the door open. It’s cold enough outside that Alex shivers in his sweater and sleep pants. Nicklas, ever polite, knocks as much of the snow off of his boots as he can before unlacing them and leaving them on the front mat. He unzips his jacket, pulls off his hat and stuffs it into his pocket, looking around the cabin. It’s small — living room to the left, kitchen and bathroom to the right, bedroom up the stairs in the center — but it’s only made for one person. It’s cozy. It also feels telling, in some way, how Alex has barely decorated, how there are blankets strewn across the living room, because Alex gets cold now, how obvious it is that no one else has been here.

“It’s nice,” Nicklas says, but he still looks angry. Uncomfortable. It’s subtle, but Alex has had the time to learn him, and the desire to work at it.

“Thanks,” Alex says. “Coffee?” He can still feel the mucus in his throat, and he coughs a little — if Nicklas hadn’t shown up he’d still be in the bathroom, but that’s not an option anymore.

Nicklas’s hands curl into fists and then relax at his sides. He clearly wants to ask, but he’s stubborn, and he knows that Alex is good at being evasive. It’s early yet, and too early to pounce. He nods instead, and Alex heads into the kitchen.

“Go sit,” he says, over his shoulder, and listens to Nicklas’s footsteps as he heads into the living room. It doesn’t take much time to pour two mugs of coffee — he’d made it before his episode — and fix them up. Nicklas likes cream but no sugar. Alex takes it with both, these days. He gives himself enough time for a few deep breaths, and then follows Nicklas into the living room.

He’s sitting on the couch, but Alex isn’t stupid enough to think he hasn’t taken a look around. There isn’t much to see. Alex hasn’t mounted any of his hockey memorabilia, of which he has a lot. The Cup ring is in a drawer next to his bed. There are a few jigsaw puzzles, a few books. When Alex gets bored, he goes for walks, though getting out of the house before noon can be a trial. He has a TV in the bedroom but he doesn’t use it much. He orders his groceries to be delivered and left on the front porch.

It’s a small life, but it is what it is.

Nicklas takes the coffee, drinks a sip, and says, “Ovi —” He’s going to ask, Alex knows he is.

Alex interrupts, instead. “It’s the All-Star Break, yeah?”

“Yes,” Nicklas says. “You know that.”

To be fair, Alex does. “You not going?”

Nicklas snorts, rolls his eyes. The familiarity makes Alex’s heart hurt. Things are easier for him when he doesn’t feel much of anything; Nicklas being here is going to be a complication.

“Fine,” Alex says. “Why’re you here, then?”

“Why the hell do you think I’m here?” Nicklas asks, and there’s that flash of anger again. “I’m here for you.”

 

Alex had told the front office he was retiring less than two weeks before the season started. He should’ve said something earlier, but he’d thought he could figure it out. He hadn’t. He’d gone to doctor after doctor, until he got desperate enough to contact curse experts, and then, later, the people who called themselves witches. None of it had been any use, except that he knows he isn’t cursed. Not exactly, anyway.

He didn’t say anything to anyone on the team or to the coaching staff or to Ted, because he was too busy trying to stay on his feet without collapsing, having convulsions, and seeing shadowy figures swoop across his vision. Also, it was too hard. He’d let someone else do it, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

He’s better at managing himself now, but there’s no way he could get on the ice. His life is small for a reason. At least he won the Stanley Cup first. At least he got to hand it to Nicklas.

It is what it is.

 

Nicklas finishes his coffee and carefully puts the mug on the coaster Alex set in front of him on the coffee table. Alex is staring at his hands, helpless to stop himself. He’s always loved Nicklas’s hands.

“Is it my fault? That you didn’t come back,” Nicklas says. “After what I said—” When Alex looks, Nicklas is looking down at his hands, too, face blank. Alex reaches out, grasps him by the shoulder and gently shakes him. If he’s being honest it’s almost as much because he’s starved for contact as to make Nicklas look at him.

“No,” Alex says, and rolls his eyes. “Not your fault, Backy.” He’s only lying in the most abstract way — it has to do with Nicklas, of course, but it’s not Nicklas’s fault Alex is in love with him. Nicklas’s rejection didn’t bring him here, or at least not in the way that Nicklas is worried about. This is nothing either of them could have predicted, or would have even thought to consider.

Some tension goes out of Nicklas, then, like he was full of bravado, waiting for Alex to blame him. Defensive anger. He says, “I didn’t _think_ so, you wouldn’t give up hockey over something like that, but I couldn’t help wondering.”

“C’mon,” Alex says, and stands. It only makes him a little dizzy. “We go for a walk, you and me. You bring your skates?”

Nicklas nods and glances out of the window, the wind picking up stray snowflakes and whisking them through the air. It’s noon, plenty of time to walk before it gets dark, and Alex would rather not spend the whole day in here with Nicklas. They’ll walk down to the lake, and Alex can sit on the dock while Nicklas skates.

They bundle up, and if Nicklas notices the way Alex stays seated to pull on his boots he doesn’t say anything. Nicklas left a small bag on the front porch, and he fishes his skates out of it. Alex sees Nicklas’s toothbrush, a change of clothes, a book inside, and he knew that Nicklas was planning on staying, but he hadn’t realized just how planned it was. Nicklas couldn’t have known Alex would let him stay, but maybe he’d hoped Alex still wouldn’t be able to tell him no. They walk side by side, and Alex keeps the pace at a slow amble. No sense in pushing himself and collapsing, especially with Nicklas here to see it. There’s no rush.

The lake is about a twenty minute walk south, and neither of them says much as they trudge along. Most of the snow has melted off of the pine trees, and the remnants of last week’s snow storm crunches underneath their boots. There’s enough on the ground to cover the trail Alex usually uses, but he knows his way. He’s done it enough times to tell apart the trunks of the trees, the slowly declining hills. Finally, they crest over the last incline and Alex sees it spread out in front of them, through the thinning line of trees.

“Nice view,” Nicklas says, the words muffled by his scarf. Alex laughs, and then coughs, and then swallows back the phlegm he’d otherwise spit onto the ground. Nicklas glances at him out of the corner of his eye and then starts off down the hill.

At least he hasn’t asked if Alex is okay.

He catches up to Nicklas by the bank, pulling up short so that he can watch the way Nicklas’s blond hair is curling over the scarf tucked close against his neck, the wide spread of Nicklas’s shoulders.

“Thought you might wanna stretch you legs,” Alex says. When Nicklas looks back at him, he grins. “Haven’t seen you skate in a while.”

“Whose fault is that?" Nicklas says, but his tone is gentle. He sits on the dock and pulls his skates on. The ice isn’t entirely clear, but the wind has pushed most of the snow to the edges, leaving enough clear space to skate just fine. Alex watches Nicklas totter down onto the surface of the pond and then push off, graceful as ever.

Nicklas doesn’t ask why Alex didn’t bring his own skates, and Alex is aware that he’s storing up his questions until he can trap Alex into answering them, but he’s grateful all the same.

Alex clears off a spot on the edge of the dock and sits with his feet dangling, the surface of the ice a few inches below the toes of his boots. Nicklas skates, every movement easy and confident, his hands folded into the pockets of his jacket, his mouth stretched in a helpless smile. Alex can’t look away, and his chest is tight with how much he misses the feel of the ice underneath his blades, and turning a perfect pass into a perfect goal, and being part of a team. He took so many things for granted, and not being alone was one of them. He pulls in a breath, and lets it out, and pulls it in again. He can’t afford to feel things this deeply, not if he wants to walk back to the cabin on his own.

Nicklas came here to get him, and even if Alex won’t — can’t — go home with him, the All Star break is four days long. Alex just has to make it until then, and not get used to having Nicklas here with him.

 

When they get back to the cabin, Alex sets Nicklas’s bag in the living room, unfolds the couch into a bed, and tells Nicklas that he’s going to nap before dinner. Nicklas gives him an even look, the one that means _you’re not fooling me_. The only other person who makes Alex feel seen the way Nicklas does is his mother.

“You can nap too, if you want,” Alex says, and then doesn’t jokingly invite Nicklas upstairs with him the way he would have before. Small steps.

“I have a book,” Nicklas says. His cheeks are still flushed from the cold, his hair wind blown at the bottom and pressed flat against his skull where his hat had covered, and Alex can’t look at him for another moment. Of all the people to come find him, it had to be Nicklas. “Does anyone know you’re here? Other than your parents, I mean.”

“No one.” Alex shrugs. His parents must’ve given Nicklas his location, though he’s not sure why they would. They’re usually more protective of him. “More talk after my nap.”

“Okay,” Nicklas says. When Alex turns to head up the stairs to his bedroom, he sees Nicklas’s shoulders slump in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t look back.

 

Alex does sleep. He dreams that he’s in the woods, surrounded by snow. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his feet bare, but he’s not cold. He coughs, and coughs again, bent over, and feels something lodge in his throat, almost too big. When he reaches into his mouth he feels webbed mucus slide against his fingers, and the scrape of bark. He pulls and pulls and as he does, the branch of a tree, covered in silver leaves, slides out of his mouth. It’s wet, coated in black saliva. He plants it into the snow, and it grows into a tree, branches spreading wider and taller, until it dwarfs him.

 _look at me_ , he hears from behind him, and even though the words seem like they’re in his head he still knows they’re Nicky’s. He turns, and Nicky is standing behind him, shirtless, eyes blank and white and without pupil. He sways as if in a wind, and as Alex watches, one branch from the silver-leafed tree shoots out and stabs him through the chest. His mouth opens but no sound comes out, just dribbles of black fluid slipping over his chin and down his neck. There’s no blood. He slumps there like a rag doll.

And Alex wakes up.

 

Alex slips into the bathroom to splash water on his face and collect himself before facing Nicklas again. The dreams aren’t new, though they aren’t usually that vivid anymore. The emotions of the day aren’t helping, that’s for sure. He tries on a smile in the mirror, and when it seems suitable enough for public consumption, he flushes the toilet and steps out.

Nicklas is sitting on the couch bed with his book, just like he said he’d be. 

Alex waves at him, asks, “Hungry?”

Nicklas smiles. “I could eat.”

“Come chop tomatoes,” Alex says. “Make yourself useful.”

Nicklas obediently sets his book aside and follows Alex into the kitchen. He chops tomatoes after Alex washes them and hands them to him, and then onions. Alex puts on water for pasta, and starts stewing the chopped tomatoes into the approximation of a sauce, cooking the onions and garlic in a separate pan with olive oil, before adding it all together. He’s not much of a cook, but he’s learned enough.

“Smells good,” Nicklas says.

“Even I can make pasta,” Alex says.

“Alex,” Nicklas says, and then sighs. Finally he says, “Are you going to tell me what happened to you?”

Alex stirs the sauce, and adds spaghetti to the pot of boiling water. “Maybe later,” he says. He’s sure Nicklas will get it out of him eventually. Nicklas is stubborn about those things.

“You’re so difficult,” Nicklas says, but he lets up, leaning back against the counter to watch Alex cook. It’s a small space, and Alex can feel how close Nicklas is, even over the heat of the stove. Alex finds himself half-heartedly wishing Nicklas would take a few steps away from him. That’s better than the other part of him which wants Nicklas to edge in closer, touch his cheek, kiss him.

That’s not what Nicklas wants and they both know it.

Alex turns away for his own sake, tests the pasta as it cooks, stirs the sauce. When everything is ready they sit at the small table together and eat. Alex hasn’t shared the space before, and his feet knock into Nicklas’s when he shifts. Nicklas smiles at him, sharp and quick, and then looks back down at his plate. Alex resolutely shovels food into his mouth, tasting nothing, ignoring the ache that wells up in his chest.

Finally, when he can’t stand the silence anymore, the sound of breath sticking in his lungs, he asks after Nicklas’s family, his brother, and then, tentatively, the team. It’s hard to hear, but good, too. They’re not _fine_ without him, exactly, but they’re okay. Nicklas picks up the slack, for once, seeming to realize that Alex needs him to. It’s a shift in their normal dynamic — Alex pushing, and Nicklas reacting. Alex wonders what Nicklas thinks about the changes in him, but asking would just put a crack in the walls he’s been carefully constructing for months, and all that’s on the other side is bile. No one deserves that, especially not Nicklas. Instead, Alex asks polite questions, and Nicklas answers them, and neither of them prod any deeper than that.

 

Alex manages to keep the worst of the symptoms to himself only as long as it takes him to fall asleep that night. He and Nicklas shuffle around each other in the bathroom, unused to sharing a space smaller than the locker room. It’s been a long time since either of them had a roommate on the road, and Alex has been in this tiny cabin for months. Nicklas ducks his head when he accidentally elbows Alex, and Alex nearly steps into the shower stall trying to avoid him.

It’s not until later, when he’s closing his eyes, that he thinks, _hopefully I won’t dream tonight_. He does, though. It’s just as vivid as before.

He’s still in the woods, and he’s still barefoot. His toes are numb, and when he looks down, he realizes that he’s hovering two inches above the forest floor. There’s a depression in the snow underneath him, like he’s so heavy that he’s compacting it without touching it. There’s a sharp pain in his chest, then continued aching pressure as it spreads outward, and then a crack — his ribs splitting as the branch of a tree pushes through muscle and bone and skin, silver leaves unfurling as they grow toward the sky. The weight of it inside him is too much, and he pants, head tilted back, watching as it stretches up and up.

He hears footsteps, then, and when he looks down, Nicky is there, in front of him. He can barely see Nicky’s face through the branches, but he’s smiling, so soft. He reaches out and starts plucking the leaves from the tree, glittering silver disappearing into his palms, and then, when he’s collected too many, into the pockets of his sweatpants. Each tug is like a pinch inside Alex, a tiny pain, and Alex knows that Nicky won’t stop until the tree is bare. He wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He lets Nicky keep plucking.

 

Nicklas is awake when Alex finally surfaces. He’s sitting tentatively at the foot of Alex’s bed, mouth pursed and unhappy. Alex’s first instinct is to wince and pull back, thinking about all the small, sharp pains. He can still feel them in his chest. When he breathes in, his throat is coated in mucus, the sound of it loud in the quiet room.

Alex slides back until he’s leaning against the headboard, and he tries not to cough. He usually sleeps naked, but he left his shorts on tonight. He thought he might need to. Nicklas’s eyes track over his bare chest, and then back up to his face.

“You were loud,” Nicklas says. “You — it woke me up.”

Alex swallows, and tastes copper. “Sorry.”

Nicklas’s face goes tight then — shifting from worry to anger. “Will you tell me what’s going on, please? You just — you left without a word, and it was like you disappeared off the face of the earth. There was nothing to go off of. Your parents wouldn’t say anything except your health wouldn’t let you play. Ovi — Alex — I had to beg them for months to tell me where you were. Please.”

It’s a lot of words for Nicklas, who usually guards them carefully, in case he says something wrong, or stutters. His expression is defiant, lit up with a pain that Alex doesn’t understand. He knew that this time would come, but he wishes that he had longer.

“For awhile I thought I was cursed,” Alex says, finally. He clears his throat, swallowing phlegm. He’s watching Nicklas carefully, so he catches the minute drop of Nicklas’s shoulders. “I go to doctors, and they say, there’s nothing wrong. I’m okay. So I go to more doctors, and have more tests, needles, scans. All fine. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

“Okay,” Nicklas says, voice careful, face blank.

“So I think, maybe I try something else, something weirder, because I can’t skate like this— ”

“Like what?” Nicklas interjects, but Alex waves him off. He doesn’t want to get into it.

“Too weak, you know? Wobbly. Dizzy. Some people think magic exists, and I wonder what do I have to lose? But I’m not cursed. Instead I’m, hm.” He realizes that he doesn’t know the term in English. He’s only ever heard it in Russian. “Love sick, I guess.”

Nicklas’s face goes even more still, if that’s possible. It’s hard to tell if he’s even breathing. “Love sick?”

Alex nods, and then he realizes that there’s no putting it off. This is really happening. “I guess it’s like a curse, except it’s also like a disease, and not really either. Rare, obviously. You get it anytime — when you a kid, a baby, or when you old — but it only hurts when you in love. This is how I am until I’m not in love with you anymore.”

“Oh,” Nicklas says. Alex can’t decipher the emotion that flickers across his face. It’s gone too quickly.

Alex could tell Nicklas that it’s better — tolerable — when the sufferer is loved in return, but it seems cruel to, and he honestly doesn’t know for sure. He’s going on the word of witches, and though they’re family friends of his mother’s, he doesn’t know how far to trust their advice. He’s never encountered magic before. Besides, Nicklas doesn’t owe him anything. They’ve already had that conversation, and Nicklas was kind to him.

Alex goes to say something, anything, to distract from how vulnerable and laid bare he feels, but the weakness is always worse right when he wakes up, and he’s been swallowing it back too long. He coughs once, and then again, and realizes that it won’t stop until it’s over. He pushes himself up and out of the bedroom with his hand over his mouth, taking the stairs two at a time. He makes it to the bathroom in time, but only just.

 

When he’s done, and showered, and has managed not to faint in the shower, Nicklas is back on the couch with his book. He looks up when Alex leaves the bathroom, brow furrowed. He half expected Nicklas to leave, even though it wouldn’t be like him to.

“I made coffee,” Nicklas says. “It’s early, but I doubted you’d want to sleep again.”

“Thanks,” Alex says, and smiles. He gets dressed, and then he makes them both cups of coffee. He pulls one of the chairs from the kitchen and sits there rather than on the couch bed with Nicklas.

“What about the dreams?” Nicklas asks. There’s a wind picking up outside, clouds threatening as the sun starts to rise.

Alex shrugs. “When I feel more, they more — real. Feel more real. Usually it’s easier not to feel so strongly out here.”

He means it as a joke, but Nicklas actually winces. “That’s why you left your family? And the team?”

 _And you_ , Alex doesn’t say. Instead, he nods. “Too much of a reminder, too many feelings. It’s easier when I’m alone. I’m famous in Russia, you know.”

“I know,” Nicklas says.

“Maybe in a year or two I feel fine, and then I come back,” Alex says. He’ll be older, maybe too old for the NHL, but there are other things he could do if he can’t hack it anymore.

“Do you really believe that?”

Alex lets himself think about that before he answers. He doesn’t, really. It only started to hurt, being in love with Nicklas, after they won the Cup together, but the potential was always there. He’s not sure he’ll really be able to get over it. He’s not sure that he wants to. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”

Nicklas sighs, and sips at his coffee. Alex watches him, and thinks about his dream — the way he’d felt like screaming, but he hadn’t. He’d let Nicklas do what he wanted.

 

They go out to the lake again that afternoon. Nicklas has been quiet, and Alex thinks he’s processing. In hockey, his mind works faster than anyone’s, but this is something else. Alex needed time, and he’s not surprised that Nicklas does too. Alex has had a lot more time to think about it.

Alex’s family came out here sometimes when he was very small — it was originally owned by a great aunt, one of his mother’s aunts, and Alex remembers it being warm enough to swim in, and how there were frogs in the reeds growing around the edges of the water. His mother always told him not to touch them, because just the oil from his fingers could hurt their skin. Alex had tried to catch them anyway.

Nicklas is graceful and calm on the ice, his cheeks and lips pink from the cold. The clouds are still gathering overhead, and Alex thinks it will snow. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he tilts his head back, and he holds his breath and keeps very still until is subsides. He wonders what Nicklas will do if he’s stuck here with Alex when the time comes to go back to Washington. The thought of Nicklas staying here longer is a delicious sort of ache. He shouldn’t want it, and yet he does. That’s the whole problem.

“How bad do you think it’ll be?”

Alex tilts his head forward to look at Nicklas, who has come to a stop in from of him at the dock. He’s not wearing a hat today and his hair is crazy, plastered to his forehead and sticking out from his head in spikes. Alex resists the urge to pat it down.

“Hard to know,” Alex says. “But it could be bad. You want to leave in case? You do have to play.”

“Hm,” Nicklas says, and then shakes his head. “I’ll wait it out.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Nicklas’s mouth is firm, his eyes steely. Alex believes him.

 

It starts to snow around sundown. Alex builds a fire in the fireplace and watches Nicklas watch the snow fall. They eat leftover pasta for dinner, and when Nicklas pats the mattress next to him, Alex gives in and sits down. He’s bad at pretending he doesn’t want to.

The wind howls like a trapped creature, and Alex can feel the cold seeping in around the edges of the glass. He put on a thick sweater when they go back from the lake, giving Nicklas an extra. Nicklas is big but it’s still large on him. The snow is falling in sheets, hitting the windows when the wind angles it just right. It could be worse, though. Alex doubts they’ll even lose power.

“It isn’t the same without you,” Nicklas says. When he sees Alex’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “In Washington, with the team. It’s not the same.”

“We don’t even play on the same line anymore,” Alex says, smiling. “You still have Osh, V.”

Nicklas rolls his eyes. “It’s not about lines, it’s about the _team_.”

Alex knows what he means, but he also wonders what Nicklas isn’t saying. It feels like he’s skirting around something, and Alex can’t help wondering what, after all of this, is too much for him to say.

“I miss you too,” he says, because he does, and because — it seems like that’s what Nicklas is asking for. “I’d come back if I could.”

Nicklas hums, a thoughtful sound, and looks back at the snow outside.

 

Alex only realizes he's fallen asleep on the couch when Nicklas shakes him awake.

“You should go to bed,” Nicklas says. “You’ll hurt your neck sleeping like that.”

Alex yawns, glancing out of the window. The snow is still falling, piling up on the edges of the porch where the wind has blown it into drifts. He thinks it’ll have slowed down in the morning. Someone will have plowed the roads before Nicklas needs to get to the airport.

“Alex.” Nicklas’s eyebrows are raised. “Bed.”

There’s a part of Alex that feels like a scolded child, but the larger part is warmed by Nicklas caring at all. Nicklas pulls him up off the couch and then up the stairs. His head swims, the vertigo worse just after waking. When he stumbles on the landing, Nicklas catches his shoulder, steadying him. He’s too sleepy and bewildered to pull away, even when Nicklas tugs the covers down and pushes him down onto the mattress.

“Do you need to change?”

Alex shakes his head. He’s already drifting off, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of Nicklas smiling down at him.

 

He dreams again. He’s burrowing through the snow, buried completely underneath it. All he can see is the bright white of sun filtering through the drifts and all he can feel is cold. There are thundering footsteps behind him, and he knows that if he doesn’t stay hidden, something bad will happen. He doesn’t know what.

“Nicky?” he whispers, because he knows Nicky is here somewhere, but Nicky doesn’t answer. He coughs, too loud, and a wad of silver leaves, stuck together with stringy black mucus, falls out of his mouth and onto the snow between his hands. As he watches, the leaves wriggle and move, digging down through the snow and toward the soil. He knows that when they get there they’ll sprout and give his position away, but he can’t help but want them to grow. They’re part of him.

The footsteps are louder now. Closer. He can feel the vibrations underneath his palms. The tremors reverberate through his bones, making his teeth clatter together. He pushes himself forward, desperation welling up in his lungs. His fingers are numb, but it doesn’t matter.

“Nicky!” he calls again, harsher, because he knows if he can find Nicky he’ll be safe. They’ll be safe together.

Somewhere, somewhere close, Nicky says his name.

There’s a crash near him, the footsteps in the snow just to his left, and a small sound of pain. A crunch of bone. A trickle of red oozes through the snow next to him, the warmth of it melting the frost until there’s blood on his fingers, underneath his fingernails, dripping onto his face and shoulder. It spreads. There’s so much of it, and he knows — he knows —

 

He wakes up to Nicklas’s hand on his neck. The touch is enough to make him stiffen up. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him. He’s breathing too fast, his pulse thundering, but Nicklas is here, touching him. Not buried alive and bleeding underneath the snow.

“You said my name.” Nicklas is bleary-eyed, hair matted to the side of his face, and Alex realizes that he didn’t go back downstairs to sleep. He slept here, in Alex’s bed. On top of the covers, yes, but close enough to touch. It makes Alex flush, hot from cheeks to chest, the warmth suffusing down to his palms. Not embarrassment. Want.

“Backy,” Alex says, a warning, and Nicklas shakes his head.

“Not that. You said ‘Nicky,’ like you were scared.” His mouth is pink, and his accent is thicker this close to sleep. His hand is still on Alex’s neck, warm and calloused. His thumb is pressing against Alex’s pulse.

“I was,” Alex says. “They scary dreams.”

“And I’m in them?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Nicky. Of course you in them.”

“What did I do?” Nicklas blinks, slow, but his expression is serious.

“You died,” Alex says, but it doesn’t have the impact he wants. Nicklas doesn’t look shocked, or startled. He yawns, and his hand slides off Alex’s neck. Alex tries not to mourn it.

“I’m still alive,” he says, closing his eyes and rolling more fully into his side. “And so are you.”

Alex does sleep again, but he watches Nicklas for a long time before he can manage it.

 

In the morning Nicklas is already up, and he’s made coffee again. It feels like he’s come to some kind of decision. It’s stopped snowing, but the wide stretch of white is undisturbed except for the occasional animal track. It’s beautiful. Alex is lucky that Nicklas is going to leave soon, and he can pack all this feeling away again.

Alex cooks eggs and toast and sausages, and Nicklas leans against the counter next to him, watching, sipping at his coffee. Alex feels hunted.

“What would happen if I loved you back?” Nicklas asks.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Tell me,” Nicklas says, in that soft, implacable way of his.

Alex has to shrug, staring down at the stove. “Maybe it would make me better, maybe not. Hard to say.”

“Alex,” Nicklas says, like he’s winding up, and Alex can feel himself getting defensive.

“I don’t know, yeah? But what does it matter? We both know you don’t love me.”

“I don’t,” Nicklas says. It comes out too fast, hurried, like Nicklas is worried he won’t be able to get the words out. “I don’t know that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I do, either. But there’s — something there. There is. I thought it then, too, when you told me, but I was scared, and you were so sure. It didn’t seem fair to say anything.”

Alex turns off the stove and looks at him. His shoulders are hunched, his coffee cup pulled up between them like a barrier. His mouth is downturned, unhappy, but he doesn’t avoid Alex’s gaze. It’s pretty similar to how he looked last time they talked about this, when he very gently let Alex down. Alex had reconciled himself with that, with this situation, but he’s not sure what to do with Nicklas now.

“I can’t be in Washington without you,” Nicklas says. “It’s not right.”

“You have to be,” Alex says, and Nicklas is already nodding.

“I know. I still hate it. I shouldn’t have to be there without you.”

“Well for now you here with me,” Alex says. “Come on, breakfast.” It’s a diversionary tactic, and they both know it, but Alex needs time. He needs to think about Nicklas’s hand on his neck, Nicklas there beside him when he woke up, Nicklas now making him feel needed. Nicklas couldn’t have known then that they’d end up here, and blaming him for it isn’t an option, but Alex isn’t prepared to feel hopeful, either.

They eat in silence, and then Alex suggests that they go down to the lake.

 

The snow is too deep to skate, but Nicklas brushes off enough of the snow that they can sit on the dock and look out over the expanse of the water. The open air makes Alex feel less trapped, and Nicklas doesn’t press.

“You feel guilty,” Alex says.

“No,” Nicklas says. “Or — not for this morning. I came here to tell you. And to see you.”

“Hm,” Alex says.

“I have to leave in the morning,” Nicklas adds. “Just so you know.”

“I thought so.” Alex doesn’t shrug, because he doesn’t feel flippant about it. Nicklas has to leave, and Alex wants him to stay, even though he shouldn’t. “The roads will be fine.”

“Alex, come on,” Nicklas says. His voice is strained. They’ve argued before — screamed at each other until their voices were hoarse — but that was about hockey. For a long time hockey was how they communicated with each other, on the ice, with stick taps and whistles and yelling. They grew up, they changed. They still fought about hockey, but not about other things. This is different.

“Don’t give me hope,” Alex says. “It’s not fair.”

Nicklas doesn’t say anything, just looks at Alex, his expression as open as Alex has ever seen it. Mournful, vulnerable. It really isn’t fair for him to come here and change everything and then leave.

“You feel guilty,” Alex says again, more firm. “But this isn’t you. I’m stubborn, and don’t know when to stop. Or how to want to.”

“You’re so — ugh, you’re so _frustrating_ ,” Nicklas says. “I almost forgot.”

“You didn’t,” Alex says, trying for chiding and nearly making it.

Nicklas, not normally fidgety, rubs his hands over his face. “You had to know I’d come find you.”

“Thought I’d have more time,” Alex says. “Maybe summer, who knows? You still play hockey, anyway, you busy.”

“And by then you thought you’d be better prepared, or you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

Alex shrugs, one-shouldered. Not really, but he’s been feeling stronger week by week. He thought maybe the effect would be reduced. “Maybe,” he says.

“That’s the problem. I don’t want you not to love me.” Nicklas pulls his hands away from his face, and his eyes are so fierce. Like he’s on the powerplay, and he knows right where Alex is going to be. Like after the clock ran down, and they’d won the cup, and he’d turned toward Alex like a magnet, looking for him. Sharing the moment. It’s that kind of intensity. “It’s not guilt. It’s something else. You left without telling me why, and I just want to be around you, see you. I don’t know what that means, but —” 

Alex bites his tongue. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go get drunk.”

 

They do. It’s easier than it used to be for Alex, given everything his body has been through, and Nicklas has always been something of a lightweight. He flushes quickly, lists back against the wall like his body is made of syrup.

“It’s stupid that you don’t believe me,” Nicklas says, when they’re both several beers in. He sounds more contemplative than angry.

“You don’t know what you want!” Alex says. “What is there to believe?”

“You’ve always believed me before.” Nicklas lies back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling beams. “Now you’re too scared, and I don’t have time to convince you.”

“Shush,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s do a puzzle. If you mean it you come back this summer and tell me again. Maybe by then you know what it is.”

“Hm,” Nicklas says, but he rolls onto his side and watches Alex spread the puzzle out on the floor. They work together silently, neither of them very good at matching pieces when drunk. After half an hour, Alex has to get up and go into the bathroom, coughing until he’s bent over the toilet, spitting clumps black goo into the bowl. His vision swims, and he sits abruptly on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

Outside, he hears Nicklas say his name, questioning, but he doesn’t have the breath to answer. Finally, the door opens. Nicklas sees him by the toilet and sits in the doorway, serious again.

“This I hate,” he says.

“Not fun for me either,” Alex manages. Just getting the words out is difficult, and it sends him into another fit, leaning forward over the bowl to hack up more phlegm. It’s embarrassing for Nicklas to see, but there isn’t much he can do about it. There are sparks going off in the corner of his vision, and he knows if he isn’t careful it could still get worse. Maybe drinking was the wrong idea.

Nicklas creeps closer, resting his hand on the back of Alex’s neck. His palm is cool against Alex’s sweaty skin. Slowly, like he’s worried Alex will pull away, he rests his forehead against Alex’s shoulder. The contact sends a shiver up Alex’s spine. His thumb presses into Alex’s pulse. Alex tries not to move.

“Backy?”

“In your dreams, you call me ‘Nicky’,” Nicklas says. Alex can feel the humidity of his breath as he sighs, seeping through the fabric of Alex’s shirt.

“You making this too hard,” Alex says, but he still doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t have it in him. “Mean.”

“Mean Lars,” Nicklas says, and laughs. He’s definitely still drunk.

Alex doesn’t know how long they sit there, Nicklas’s face pressed into Alex’s arm, until he realizes that Nicklas is almost asleep. 

“Big day for you, hm? Feeling so many feelings,” Alex says. Nicklas rolls his head enough that Alex can see one of his eyes, bleary and unfocused.

“Months of feelings,” Nicklas says. “Bed?”

“Yeah, okay,” Alex says, and struggles to get them both to their feet. He isn’t surprised when Nicklas shakes his head at the couch bed, following Alex up into the bedroom. He’s resigned. Nicklas collapses on top of the covers and closes his eyes, leaving Alex standing at the food of the bed, watching him breathe.

“Sleep,” Nicklas says, so Alex climbs underneath the covers and does his best.

 

That night he dreams he’s in the woods — or, no, he’s in a swamp. He’s in a swamp, and his feet are sinking into the black muck. He doesn’t know if he was ever wearing boots and they’ve already gotten sucked off his feet or not but he can feel the mud and decomposing plant matter squishing between his toes. He tries to move his feet but he can’t — the roots of the swamp reeds have tangled around his toes, holding him down. There’s murky water up to his knees already, and he knows if he stays where he is, he’ll eventually sink underneath the water and drown.

All around him, twisted trees are growing out of the water, each other them sprinkled with silver leaves. Their branches arch toward him but never reach him, no matter how he struggles.

He hears the whirr of a boat motor, and then sees Nicky, skimming above the water, steering the boat with one hand while he looks out over the swamp. Alex knows that the water he’s in is too shallow for the boat, and that if Nicky comes to get him he’ll just get stuck, but he can’t seem to say the words. When he opens his mouth, a croak comes out and nothing more.

Tendrils, more roots, snake up from the silt, wrapping around his ankles and yanking him to his knees. Somehow he knows that the closer Nicky gets the further down the tendrils will pull him. He tries to tell Nicky to turn back, but the roots wrap around his wrists, brackish water sloshing into his mouth. It tastes like dirt and reeds and decomposition. He can’t breathe.

 

Alex wakes up to Nicklas pressed close to him, stealing the blankets and his body heat. The contact makes Alex’s heart beat painfully in his chest in a way the dream hadn’t. Nicklas’s hand is on his waist, fingertips pressed against skin where his shirt is riding up. Alex feels tender, bruised up inside. It’s hard to be presented with this and remind himself that none of it matters.

“Stop,” Nicklas says, tilting his head away from the pillow. There are crease marks on his face.

“Stop what?” Alex asks, mostly to be an asshole.

Nicklas yawns and rolls his eyes. “Thinking so hard. You — your dreaming woke me up. You were wheezing. And now I can feel you thinking.” 

His fingers curl against Alex’s skin, tantalizing, and Alex represses a shudder. He has to know he’s doing it. He has to.

Just when Alex thinks Nicklas will pull away, he instead rolls closer. Nicklas’s breath is warm on Alex’s chin, too close, but Nicklas doesn’t laugh when Alex jolts. He presses his mouth to Alex’s chin, and then kisses Alex’s cheek. He’s gentle about it, but every touch wrenches something inside Alex. The want hurts. The hope hurts more.

“Why?” Alex asks, in a whisper.

“Why? Because I want to. I have to leave in four hours, and I want to. I need you to come back.” Nicklas presses the words to Alex’s skin, nose nudging Alex’s cheekbone.

“What if you don’t love me after all?” Alex asks. 

Nicklas’s fingers tighten and then loosen. “I don’t know. What if I do? What if I don’t just like you and want you? What if I do love you?”

Alex doesn’t have an answer but he kisses Nicklas then. It’s too much work to stop himself, and he wants to. He’s spent the last four months determinedly not feeling anything, and Nicklas came here to find him. It’s stupid to pretend that he could go back to nothing knowing that Nicklas cares even that much.

Nicklas opens his mouth, licks into Alex’s, turning everything sloppy and slow. Morning sleepiness. He doesn’t try to go anywhere, doesn’t try to do anything else, just lets Alex kiss him and makes soft, satisfied noises against Alex’s mouth.

 

Alex makes coffee and breakfast while Nicklas showers. His mouth is still tingling, but he isn’t sure if that’s from kissing Nicklas, or from thinking about kissing Nicklas again.

“You could come home with me,” Nicklas says, when they’re at the table together.

Alex shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Then I’ll come back here,” Nicklas says. There’s steel in his voice, and Alex believes him.

 

Alex walks Nicklas to the end of the drive, where he has a car scheduled to pick him up. The roads are clear. There’s no one to shovel the drive except Alex and he hasn’t bothered, so the snow crunches underneath their boots. Nicklas puts his bag on the ground and turns to Alex, both hands coming up to cup his jaw.

“Work on believing me,” Nicklas says. “Make my job easier this summer.”

“Maybe work on figuring out if you love me or not,” Alex says, but when Nicklas kisses him, Alex lets him. It’s good, and Nicklas draws it out, still cupping Alex’s face, like he’s trying to push the feeling through to his heart. Like he’s giving Alex something to hold on to. Finally, Nicklas pulls back, his mouth wet and pink, his eyes searching Alex’s face. Whatever he sees makes him smile.

“This summer,” he says. “I promise.” He lets his hands slide off of Alex’s face and gets into the car. Alex watches him go. He waits until the car is out of sight to touch his mouth, the ghost pressure of Nicklas’s lips against his. There is nothing for him to do but wait.

When he gets back to his cabin, alone, he crawls back into bed. The room smells like Nicklas, the presence of him hovering over everything. Alex sleeps, and he doesn’t dream.


End file.
